Soft Alphabet at the Intersection

At dusk the city loosens its screws, and every storefront glass becomes a shallow pond. Neon minnows swim across the crosswalk paint, while buses exhale warm rain into the dark.

Above the avenue, laundry lines of cloud drag their wet sleeves over antennas. A violin from an open window threads the steam, stitching one lit kitchen to another.

Then fireflies rise from the median grass, small lantern-bearers practicing patience. They drift between brake lights and billboards as if teaching the towers a softer alphabet.

I stand at the corner, pockets full of thunder, watching night learn how to kneel. For a minute the whole block breathes in unison, and even the concrete remembers it was dust.